22
It turns out Kazia has flu. She’s off school all week, curled up on the sofa in a swirl of blankets with Cheesy snuggled in beside her. I get into the habit of coming straight home to sit with her, reading her stories from my old storybooks, about smugglers and spies and buried treasure.
‘Britain isn’t really the way it sounds in the stories,’ Kazia sighs. ‘It’s still cool, though!’
‘Yes, it’s still cool.’
‘It’s not fair, being ill in the last week of term,’ she says. ‘I’m missing all the fun stuff ! The nativity play, the party, the presents! What if my friends forget me?’
‘They won’t forget you,’ I promise. ‘They’ll still be there in the New Year.’
I’m not sure if we will be here in the New Year, but I don’t tell Kazia that. I’ve heard Mum and Dad talking late at night, and I know things are bad… very bad.
‘At least you won’t miss the Christmas dance,’ my sister chatters on. ‘You’ll be the prettiest one there, and on the stroke of midnight Dan will ask you to dance, but if you run away and lose your pixie boots, you’ll never get to be a real princess.’
I laugh. ‘I think you’re getting the story muddled up a bit,’ I tell her. ‘Besides, I have no idea if Dan will even be there – he hasn’t been in school all week. And trust me, I’m not planning to lose my boots again!’
‘You haven’t even got a fairy godmother,’ Kazia frowns.
I roll my eyes. ‘Ah,’ I tell my little sister. ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong…’
‘You shall go to the ball!’ Frankie says. ‘Seriously, Anya. Take a look!’
I’m at Frankie’s, getting ready for the Christmas dance. I’d like to say I spent hours searching my wardrobe for something to wear, but it was more like minutes. I picked out the only thing I owned that might do, a blue print dress with a fitted top, gathered sleeves and a short, sticky-out skirt. Frankie did my make-up. She even straightened my hair and sprayed it with something, and now she is steering me towards the mirror.
I blink. The girl in the mirror looks a little like me… but better. The dress, which seemed plain and little-girlish back in Krakow, is somehow cute and cool with borrowed turquoise tights and flat boots. My hair is long and blonde and sleek, with a sheen of glitter where the light catches it, and Frankie has outlined my eyes and stroked sparkly blue shadow across my lids.
‘It’s great!’ I tell her.
‘How about me?’ Frankie demands. ‘Think I’ll make an impression?’
Only a blind man would be able to miss Frankie tonight. She’s wearing a black minidress with a redand-black tutu skirt, red stripy tights and Doc Marten boots. Her hair has been crimped and backcombed until it looks like she just crawled out of a hedge. ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ she asks, looking backwards over her shoulder into the mirror. ‘OK, don’t answer that, Anya. My bum looks big in everything.’
‘You look cool,’ I promise. ‘I wonder… will Dan be there, tonight, do you think?’
‘Dan?’ Frankie raises an eyebrow. ‘I dunno. He’s missed so much school lately. He’d be crazy to show his face with all those teachers around… Fisher’s out to get him. Like I said, Anya, he’s no angel…’
‘We’re just friends,’ I say.
‘Yeah, right!’ Frankie smirks.
I blink. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I do like Dan. Is that a crime? I’ve tried not to, but I can’t help it. I know he’s trouble, but I like him a lot, and I think he likes me too. And anyway, Frankie, you’re not exactly an expert when it comes to the whole crush thing, are you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that Kurt is crazy about you, and you haven’t even noticed! The boy of your dreams is right there under your nose, Frankie – open your eyes!’
‘Boy of my dreams? Kurt Jones?’ Frankie echoes. ‘No way. Kurt is only interested in beansprouts, biology homework and the square root of 73.5. He doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ I say.
‘Trust me, Anya, I’m sure,’ Frankie says, blotting her crimson lipstick and grabbing her coat. ‘C’mon, let’s go!’
You wouldn’t think St Peter and Paul’s could ever look magical, but tonight it does. The darkness hides the worst of the peeling paint and the graffiti, and someone has draped fairy lights all around the main entrance. Frost glimmers on the path as we approach.
A gang of girls dressed up in satin prom dresses and tinsel headdresses totter past us, giggling, and then we see Kurt, waiting for us on the steps. He looks like his own version of smart, in black skinny jeans, a collarless white shirt and a big, sagging jacket that looks like it came from a jumble sale.
‘Hey!’ he yells. I wink at Frankie, and I’m almost sure I see her blush as Kurt links our arms and the three of us go inside.
The school hall has been transformed. Lit only by fairy lights, it is shadowy and mysterious, the ceiling hung with rustling streamers, silver tinsel and hundreds of glitter-edged snowflakes. The scary snowman we made in art has been shunted into a corner behind the refreshments table, where Mr Fisher and Miss Matthews are serving lemonade and mince pies.
Mr Critchley, dressed in a Santa suit, is on stage running the disco, and already a sea of excited Year Sevens are jiggling about on the dance floor while the Year Eights stand around the edges, trying to decide when it would be cool to join in.
I can see Lily Caldwell across the hall, risking frostbite in a red-sequinned minidress, and Dan’s bad-boy gang lounging carelessly against the stage, trying to talk Mr Critchley into playing Jay-Z instead of corny Christmas songs. I can’t see Dan, though, not anywhere.
Kurt, Frankie and I load up on mince pies and lemonade and start making our way back through the crush of kids, when someone grabs at my waist, and there’s Dan, in angel wings, laughing as he whirls me round.
‘Hey, guys!’ he yells above the music. ‘Nice jacket, Kurt. Love the tutu, Frankie! And, Anya… you look awesome. Seriously.’
‘You came!’ I grin.
‘We agreed, didn’t we? I even wore the angel wings for you… well, it is Christmas! Is Fisher here?’ Dan looks around anxiously. ‘He’s one person I do NOT want to see tonight. I’m in serious trouble, and it’s all his fault…’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘What didn’t?’ Dan scowls. ‘Fisher is one sad, power-crazed loser, right?’
‘Right,’ Kurt says, blinking. ‘And he’s over by the refreshments table right now with a ladle in his hand, Dan, so you’d better be careful…’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Dan frowns. ‘C’mon, Anya. Nowhere’s safe.’
He takes my hand and pulls me after him through the crowds, out into the darkened corridors.